


GAME

by Grinner_H



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: M/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-10
Updated: 2013-08-10
Packaged: 2017-12-23 00:53:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/920060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grinner_H/pseuds/Grinner_H





	GAME

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ominous_Rain](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ominous_Rain/gifts).



You'd fuck him anywhere - on the leather interior of your car, atop the washing machine in the hideout's laundry room, on a cold park bench. You'd fuck him on the steps leading up to Namimori's shrine if you had to, but _never_ in your own bed, _never_ in his.

You were enemies once. You'd like to think you still are, beneath the guise of Guardians to the same Family, duty to the same Boss. Enemies to rivals to grudging allies.

And _now?_

Now, you're grudging allies who _fuck._

\--

You've never quite figured out _why,_ but Rokudou Mukuro's hair reminds you of sand. 

Not the pebble-smooth kind that forms vast beaches, white like the foam cresting the rolling waves of an ocean; more like the rough grains of an unfriendly desert, the kind that feels strange and unwelcoming against the soles of your feet and between your toes.

 _Ironic,_ because Mukuro's hair really _isn't_ rough at all. 

\--

Rokudou Mukuro's hair is midnight and sin, spills like blood stealthily seeping into dry earth. 

Sometimes, you try to grab it - wind tendrils around your fingers like a scarf, catch fistfuls of blue the way one would snatch wads of cash if they miraculously fell from the sky - but it always escapes your grasp, like sand slipping through the cracks of your closed hand. His hair is smooth like rocks beneath a waterfall, eerie like tentacles creeping up the skirt of an unsuspecting maiden, elusive as the man himself.

You watch it cascade down his slender back, rich like fresh ink from a bottle toppled over. He's got his knees planted on either side of your thighs, moving himself rhythmically up and down your cock.

You don't get why he always rides you _backwards_ like this, why he never looks at you when you fuck. 

His hair dances with each rocking motion, the tips sliding over your sharp hips, your upper thighs, sometimes tickling the base of your cock. You _like_ watching this dance, the way his lustrous mane curtains every arch and curve of his elegant spine, every wound you've placed on his back. Sometimes, you reach out and touch, certain you can feel the bump of each vertebra, the line of each scar beneath dark strands and fair skin.

You like studying the rapid jerk and twitch of his right elbow, the violent shudder of his limber frame. You don't have to close your eyes to imagine what his hand looks like wrapped around his leaking cock - the stroke of his fingers against his shaft, the brush of his thumb against his slit.

Sometimes, he leans forward and grips your shins for support, as if he might fall apart if he's got nothing to hold on to. You _hate_ when he does that. His sweaty palms and callused fingers feel too much like shackles against your flesh, hot and cold in all the wrong places.

You'd reach out to grip his mane, pull his head back as violently as possible; something like a warning, something like a threat. Only you can't, you _can't,_ because he slips through your fingers like sand in an hourglass and _doesn't_ hiss your name when he cums.


End file.
